How to Survive a Horror Movie Page 2

  Evil places and things. An evil vehicle, a killer doll, or a haunted house.

  The undead. Ghosts, zombies, mummies, and the reanimated.

  Fangs. Werewolves, aliens, and vampires.

  Satanic. Demons, curses, and the devil.

  This book contains the tactics to help you survive each and every one of these subgenres. Now it’s time to pinpoint your location.

  1. GATHER CLUES FROM YOUR MOVIE’S SETTING. You’ve already scanned your surroundings for the usual horror movie suspects. Now it’s time to take a closer look. Your location can speak volumes about the movie’s subgenre, assuming you know how to read the tea leaves:

  An isolated/dilapidated house. If you’re a young female alone in the house, all signs point to a slasher. If you’re joined by friends or relatives, it’s a haunted house. If the windows and doors are boarded up, there are about 7,000 zombies outside waiting to feast on your brains.

  A summer camp. You’re in a slasher movie.

  Deep space. You’re either in a really well-made alien flick or a nauseatingly bad, late-in-the-series slasher flick.

  The Midwestern United States. Hard to tell. This could be anything from a non-supernatural slasher to an evil vehicle rampage. However, if your friend finds a meteorite in the woods, you should probably shoot him in the face and burn his body. Just to be safe.

  A constantly overcast city. Urban horror movies are almost always Satanic in nature. Curses and demons should be high on your list of concerns.

  Western Europe. You’re in a werewolf movie.

  Eastern Europe. You’re in a vampire movie.

  2. DETERMINE YOUR MOVIE’S BUDGET. Subgenres often break down along budget lines, so it can be very helpful to get a fix on how deep the producers’ pockets are. Three things to observe:

  Location. Are you in the city or the suburbs? (It’s much more expensive to shoot a movie in a city.) Do you live in a luxury home or a run-down one-bedroom? (Set construction is costly.) How much freedom do you have to visit different places? (The more you move around, the more sets have to be built or location fees paid.)

  Look. Does the lighting seem natural, or are you distracted by how flat and harsh it is? (Could the production afford a talented cinematographer?) How nicely is everything decorated? If you open desk drawers, are there supplies inside, or are they empty? (How big was the art department’s budget?)

  Licensing. Do you hear any popular songs or watch any real movies or TV shows as you go about your day? (If so, the producers had to pay through the nose for the rights, suggesting a higher budget.)

  If everything points to a cash-strapped production, you’re probably in a low- or even micro-budgeted horror flick—the most common kind. If you’re not exactly sure where your movie falls, it’s likely that the filmmakers are working with a modest budget. And if you feel as if no expense has been spared, it’s possible that you’re in the seldom-seen big-budget horror movie. So how does this help you figure out the subgenre?

  Low or micro budget. The photography isn’t particularly eye-catching, there aren’t more than a few major settings, and you’re nowhere near a city. Possible subgenres: slashers, the undead, evil places and things.

  Modest budget. Day looks like day, night looks like night, and you’re able to visit well-populated public places. Perhaps you live in a charming, richly decorated farmhouse or luxury apartment. Possible subgenres: the undead, fangs, satanic.

  Big budget. Really? If you are in a horror flick, it’s almost certainly alien or satanic in nature. But it’s more likely that you’ve made the common mistake of misdiagnosing a “psychological thriller” as a horror movie. If so, heed this advice: If you’re looking for your child, he/she probably never existed. Also: your husband did it.

  3. DETERMINE YOUR MOVIE’S TIME PERIOD. The overwhelming majority of horror movies exist in the present, mainly because they’re made for teenagers, and the easiest way to scare teenagers is to show them other teenagers—who look and sound just like them—getting hacked to pieces, and because it’s way, way, way cheaper to film in the present. But if you happen to find yourself wearing pantaloons or snoozing in a hypersleep pod, those subgenres become easier to sniff out:

  The past. Consider the possibility that you’re merely in a flashback sequence—the one where the old lady hangs herself, thus making the house evil, blah, blah, blah. But if you’re really stuck in the salted-pork era (specifically the eighteenth or nineteenth centuries) you’re probably in a mummy or vampire movie—the only subgenres that dare to break the unwritten rule against making period horror flicks.

  The future. Another rarity in the Terrorverse, a futuristic setting almost always means you’re in an alien movie (although in a few cases, some overly ambitious slashers have made their way to the final frontier).

  4. LOOK FOR DEAD GIVEAWAYS. Sometimes it takes careful deduction to figure out a movie’s subgenre. But sometimes, a clue is so obvious that it eliminates the need for further analysis. A few examples:

  • Your friend uses SPF one billion sun block at the beach. Subgenre: vampires.

  • Slices of bread start screaming when you put them in the toaster. Subgenre: haunted house.

  • Your husband seems distant lately—plus, he tries to order “brains” every time you go to a restaurant. Subgenre: zombie.

  • A cat jumps out of every door, cabinet, window, oven, washing machine, jar, or tube of toothpaste you open. Subgenre: slasher.

  • Bibles burst into flames if they’re brought within reach of your child. Subgenre: the Devil.

  KNOW YOUR HARBINGERS OF

  IMPENDING DOOM THE DUAL CITIZEN

  A dual citizen is a special breed of character found only in horror films. He or she is someone (usually an elderly man) who exists somewhere between the Terrorverse and the real world. Dual citizens always function in the same way: give the audience some neatly bundled back-story and force the protagonist to make a choice—either heed the warning and turn back, or ignore it and forge ahead. Inevitably, our hero always chooses option number two (otherwise, we wouldn’t have much of a movie). But if your goal is survival, you’d be well advised to get the hell out of Dodge when some old codger tells you to, narrative structure be damned. Here are three of the most common dual citizens to be on the lookout for:

  • The gas station attendant, who lives just down the road from the evil town and tells you not to go there, even though he seems relatively unaffected by the evil. (Why hasn’t he moved away or called the cops in all these years?)

  • The local barfly who tells you a story beginning with “It was a night just like tonight …”

  • The homeless guy who grabs your arm after you toss a nickel in his cup, stares into your eyes, and says something prophetic, like, “If you’re trapped in the house of hell, follow the right path to freedom.” Of course, this advice eventually saves your life at the end of the movie, when you’re confronted with two doors while escaping the serial killer’s basement.

  HERO

  One door on the left, one on the …

  right?

  (puts it together)

  Right path! “Follow the right path to freedom!” God, what clever screenwriting!

  Still, you’d have been better off identifying him as a dual citizen and not entering the house of hell in the first place.

  C.R.A.V.E.N. (COVER, RECON, ARSENAL, VEHICLE, ESCAPE, NORTH)

  The time for analysis is over. You’ve been sucked into the Terrorverse, and as much as you may feel like crying or making skid marks in your tighty-whiteys, you’d better pull yourself together—and right soon. Because if you don’t, the boogeyman’s really going to give you something to cry about (assuming he lets you keep your eyes). Your situation requires immediate action, and the C.R.A.V.E.N. method was developed for just such an emergency. It’s a kind of “stop, drop, and roll” for horror movie victims—a way to stay alive long enough to summon your courage and get out of immediate danger. So take a deep breath, stick to t
he letters, and come with me if you want to live …

  C: TAKE COVER. Running around in a panic is the fastest way to end up with a machete in your back. What you need right now is a temporary headquarters—a place to wipe the sweat from your brow, take a pull off the old asthma inhaler, and formulate your plan. Some of the best places to do that:

  Good ol’ everyday houses. Though not ideal fortresses, the average two-story house is almost always the closest option. If you’re already in one, great. If not, run into the first one you see (if there’s a family inside, even better—they’ll call the cops, and horror villains tend to scatter when the cops arrive). Go to the highest floor, check all the closets, look under the beds, and use whatever you can to barricade the doors and windows.

  Water towers. If your movie takes place in a small Midwestern town, this might very well be the tallest structure around. If you can get to the top, you’ll have a highly defensible (there’s only that one long ladder to worry about) perch with a 360-degree bird’s-eye view of the battlefield. Even better, the available water supply will allow you to stay longer if you have to.

  Churches. While the power of Christ won’t stop all forms of evil (zombies are notorious agnostics), it’ll slow down most demons, supernatural slashers, or vampires that happen to be on your trail. Even better, churches tend to have fewer exits to cover and plenty of pews to use for blockades. Lead-lined stained glass windows are tough to break through, and many churches have spires or bell towers that serve as great vantage points.

  A word of warning: “Overbarricading” is a common horror movie mistake. People get so focused on trying to keep anything from getting in, that they forget to leave themselves a way out. For example, locking yourself in a bank vault might stop the killer in his tracks, but now what? Remember, the C.R.A.V.E.N. steps are strictly temporary—a way to stop the bleeding before the real surgery begins. Unless you’re being chased by vampires, in which case you can just stay put till morning.

  R: CONDUCT RECONNAISSANCE. Now that you’ve had a moment to catch your breath, it’s time to get an idea of where the enemy is and what he’s up to. If you don’t have the height of a church spire or water tower working for you, peek through the highest window in your hideout and take a look. Do you see the attacker(s)? Is he standing still or looking for a way in? Is he favoring one side of the hideout over another? If you’re being pursued by a group, are there any areas where their ranks are thin? Is there an unoccupied vehicle or busy road in sight? All of this information will help you choose the most promising escape route.

  If you see nothing, they’re probably right behind you. No, wait! Don’t turn around; just pretend you’re still reading this page. Nice and cool … that’s it. Now, on the count of three, cover your face with your arms and jump over the rail, out of the bell tower, or through the window. Either you jump or you die. Ready? One … two … just kidding, you’re totally screwed.

  A: GATHER AN ARSENAL. You see a path to freedom—now all you have to do is fight your way down it. To do that, you’ll need some kind of weapon. If you’re barricaded in a house, look for a baseball bat, kitchen knife, or anything that kids aren’t allowed to play with indoors. Even a can of oven cleaner is better than nothing. If you’re holed up in a church, grab a heavy-duty candlestick or a collection plate, which can be thrown with deadly decapitating force. And if you’re up on that water tower, get your hands on the nearest, um … actually, there aren’t too many options with a water tower.

  You really should’ve thought of that before you climbed up there.

  V: COMMANDEER A VEHICLE. You’ve summoned some courage, grabbed a weapon, and hopefully spotted a nearby unoccupied vehicle or busy road during your reconnaissance—now it’s time to kick a little ass. In a burst of adrenaline-fueled speed, make a run for it, using your weapon to clobber, cut, or blind anything in your path. Your goal—your only goal—is to reach the nearest car or truck, get inside, and blow town as fast as inhumanly possible.

  If you reach an unoccupied vehicle first, get in (don’t bother smashing the window—they left the car unlocked), lock the doors, and pull down the driver’s-side sun visor. The keys will simply drop into your lap. When you try to start the engine, it’ll turn over again and again, but don’t worry—it’ll kick in as soon as the attacker(s) reaches the car and pounds on the windows.

  If you reach a busy road first, simply run into oncoming traffic and wave your arms wildly. Inevitably, an attractive member of the opposite sex will see you at the last second, skid, and smash into you. Yes, you’ve been seriously injured, but you’ve also just scored your love interest, and more importantly—your ride.

  WHEN COMMANDEERING AN UNOCCUPIED VEHICLE, SIMPLY PULL DOWN THE SUN VISOR AND THE KEYS WILL DROP INTO YOUR LAP.

  E: MAKE YOUR ESCAPE. This is the easy part. Just bury the accelerator and don’t look back. If you’ve just been picked up by that hot blonde, move close to her on that bench seat, stare into her eyes, and floor it.

  N: HEAD NORTH. In Terrorverse America, it’s always better to be north of wherever you are. If you’re in Maine, you’ll soon reach the safety of (98 percent horror-free) Canada (ditto if you’re in the creepy videotape-laden Pacific Northwest). If you’re in the desolate Southwest, you’ll be playing slots in Vegas before dawn. If you’re on an alien-infested Pennsylvania farm, you’ll be in Upstate New York—where few horror movies take place, since everyone forgets it’s there. So put the car in “D,” point the compass to “N,” and get the “F” out of there.

  EJECTION SEAT #1: THE GENRE SWITCHEROO

  Should you find yourself in the clutches of certain death—fangs to your neck, knife to your throat—there are only four proven methods of making a last-minute escape, called Ejection Seats because of their drastic, last-resort nature.

  Ejection Seat #1 is the Genre Switcheroo. The switcheroo works by doing something to confuse the killer (and the screenwriter) just long enough to get clear of the immediate kill zone. This is accomplished by doing something completely incongruous with the situation—something that leaves the audience asking, “Wait, is this really a horror movie?”

  MOVE YOUR MOUTH OUT OF SYNC WITH YOUR DIALOGUE. Demand to know where magic sword is. Use the words revenge or master in every sentence. Genre: martial arts.

  FART. This should be easy, considering you’re already moments away from making it in your pants. Genre: teen comedy.

  SLIP YOUR ATTACKER THE TONGUE. Potentially gross depending on the type of killer you’re dealing with, but quite effective. Genre: romance.

  LIGHT A CIGARETTE AND CHASTISE YOUR ATTACKER IN ITALIAN. Doesn’t even have to be real Italian. Just use your hands a lot. Genre: artsy foreign film.

  DELIVER A LONG, STOIC MONOLOGUE IN AN ENGLISH ACCENT. About a lifetime of regret, unrequited love, and summers at the estate in Yorkshire. Genre: Merchant Ivory.

  THE SEVEN DEADLY HORROR MOVIE SINS

  The Seven Deadly Sins date back to the earliest days of Christianity. They were devised as a way to keep followers from indulging their less attractive urges: lust, pride, wrath, gluttony, sloth, envy, and greed. In Catholicism, these transgressions were (and still are) dealt with through confession and prayer. In the Church of Latter Day Horror Movies, however, there’s a different set of seven deadly sins, and only one punishment …

  1ST DEADLY SIN: DOUBT. There are two types of horror movie characters: those who believe your story and those who don’t. And while believers are by no means safe, at least they’ve taken the first step down the long road toward survival. Doubters, however, can always count on being dead before the end credits.

  “It was just a dream, honey.” No it wasn’t. Come on, people. Your son, daughter, or best friend is having recurring dreams about getting brutally murdered night after night, and you’re brushing it aside as what—indigestion? This is a horror movie. All nightmares are real. Treat them as such, or you’ll be in one of your own before long.

  “I’ve heard enough out of you!” This
line is almost always spoken by the father, cop, or combination thereof. The one who has every opportunity to step in and do something, but refuses to believe some punk’s cockamamie story. And why should he? Sure, there have been brutal murders here for the last 12 consecutive summers, but he buried that psychopath in Old Man Hurley’s tobacco field. Buried him with his own two hands. What—just because some dope-smoking kids saw something, he should drop everything and investigate?

  “Those are just ghost stories our parents told us.” Yes, and they just happen to be true. If all the moms and dads in town have spent the last 17 years telling you not to go into the abandoned mannequin factory, here’s an idea: Don’t go into the abandoned mannequin factory.

  2ND DEADLY SIN: MACHISMO. The jock who thinks his football skills are enough to defeat the reincarnated serial killer. The redneck who intends to show that vampire how they do things in Texas. The soldier who’s taken on aliens way scarier than this one. All tough, all dead. Remember, fellow males—in horror movies, testosterone might as well be cyanide.

  “You want some of this?” You know the guy. The one who just can’t take it anymore.

  MACHO GUY

  What’s your plan, huh? Sit and wait for that … that thing to pick us off one by one?

  (grabs the last shotgun shell)

  No way, man! Not me.

  He runs out into the open, yelling something like “C’mon, show your face, you pussy!” And … well, you know how that ends.

  “You’re perfectly safe as long as we’re around.” OK, stop me if you’ve heard this one before—the galaxy’s toughest Marines go to this alien-infested planet, see?

  “Shut up and make me some eggs before you get a black eye.” The worst of all the machismo sinners is the abusive husband or boyfriend. If you mistreat a woman in a horror film, there’s no book that can save you from your well-deserved, imminent, and audience-pleasing death.